


Custom Design

by imogenbynight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, dean is bi, kind of a coda, post 11.12, slight crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 20:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7985329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a special delivery waiting for Dean at the Lebanon Post Office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Custom Design

**Author's Note:**

> This is seven months old, but somehow I forgot to post it here when I put it on tumblr. Oops :s

Despite having spent the better part of the past three years living in the Men of Letters bunker, Dean can count on one hand the number of times he and Sam have ventured into Lebanon proper.  Usually, they pick up whatever they need at the Walmart in Hastings, and avoid the tiny general store on Lebanon’s main street through the lingering paranoia of their father.

What was it he used to say? You never use the same crapper twice.

Dean’s pretty sure that applies to small town stores, too, especially ones near your secret underground bunker. And Lebanon—with a population of less than three hundred people—barely even rates as a small town.

It’s a text message from the Lebanon branch of the US post office that has him breaking that rule today. He’s been sitting in the Impala eyeing the empty street for any and all signs of an ambush for five minutes before Sam gets annoyed enough to say something.

“Who even knows we’re _in_ Lebanon?” he asks from the passenger seat, and Dean shrugs as he tries to think of someone.

“Crowley,” he says after a minute. Sam snorts.

“If Crowley suddenly decided that he actually wanted us dead, he’d set the bunker on fire or something. He doesn’t need to send packages to the PO box we forgot we set up.”

Sam has a point. In a spiteful kind of way that is 100% influenced by the fact that they’re siblings, it makes Dean want to dig his heels in even more.

“Dude, just go see what it is,” Sam tells him with a roll of his eyes as he climbs out of the car. “You want anything from the store?”

“No,” Dean says, and clicks his teeth together as he immediately thinks of something. “Tortilla chips.”

“’kay.”

Sam’s already disappearing through the general store’s front door by the time Dean gets out of the car and heads for the post office. 

Over the door a bell jingles, and an elderly woman shuffles out from the back room. She makes quick work of finding the right package—not shocking, Dean thinks, since it’s probably the only one there—and he gives her a friendly wave before he heads back outside to open it.

If someone’s sent him a curse, he’d rather not open it in front of a septuagenarian.

The package is about the size of a laptop, though considerably lighter, and when he squeezes it it feels soft. Fabric, maybe? He almost ordered a Black Sabbath t-shirt online a few months back, but he’s pretty sure he never hit the checkout button.

Leaning against the driver’s side door, he rips the envelope open and looks inside to find a shirt he thought he’d lost, and a handwritten note alongside it. He pulls the note out first, and with it, something printed on thicker paper slips out and glides directly under the car before he can get a good look at it.

Dumping the envelope on the hood, he reads;

> _Dean—_   
>    
>  _Found your shirt in the dryer and figured I’d mail_   
>  _it in case there’s another year between visits._   
>  _Try not to be strangers, okay?_
> 
> _Take care._
> 
> _—Jody_
> 
> _P.S. I was ordering a new bumper sticker_   
>  _for the truck and saw they had a custom_   
>  _design option… Couldn’t resist._

“Custom design?” Dean mutters aloud, a wrinkle forming between his brows as he ducks down to look under the car, leaving the note under the envelope.

He’s still groping around on the asphalt when Sam gets back from the store, and Dean looks up to see him pluck the note from the hood.

“Jody sent you a bumper sticker?” Sam asks once he’s read it, lifting his brow, and Dean shrugs.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Why?”

“No idea,“ he says, as his fingers finally close around the glossy surface of the sticker in question and he pulls it out from under the car. He stares at the words, white on black, bold text. His ears burn hot. “Uh.”

“What is it?” Sam asks, and stupidly, Dean tries to cover it up.

“Nothing,” he says.

Sam latches on to that _nothing_ like a dog with a bone.

“If it’s nothing,” he says as Dean scrambles to his feet, “you’ll let me see.”

“No, it’s not—“

Somehow, Sam’s freakishly long arms manage to get the sticker out of Dean’s hands before he can manage to wedge it safely into his jeans.

“ _As long as everyone wears a condom I’ll be fine_ ,” Sam reads aloud, and snorts as he looks at Dean. “Everyone, hey? How many people are we talking, here?”

“Shut up,” Dean tells him, and gets into the car.

Sam’s laugh is loud on the quiet street, and a little part of Dean wants to leave him here. He starts the engine and revs, just to make him panic.

“It was just a joke,” he says as Sam gets into the car, though at this point he knows his earlier reaction has well and truly blown the lid off that lie ever sounding plausible.

“Of course,” Sam says anyway, and Dean kind of hates that he’s giving him this out. He’s tired of having an out. Kind of wishes he _was_ out. He clears his throat.

“Or, I mean. You know. It’s _kind of_ a joke,” he says, and glances over. “But it’s kind of not.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam tells him without looking up. Apparently he’s too busy rearranging the plastic bag from the grocery store so it’s less in the way of his feet.

“You know?”

“Didn’t know it was meant to be a secret.”

Dean purses his lips and turns off the main street, heading back toward the bunker. He huffs out a breath.

“You do get that I’m talking about dudes here, right?”

Sam finally looks at him and lifts his brow.

“Dean, believe me. As much as I’ve tried, I’ve never managed to erase the image of you and the uh…” he wrinkles his nose. “Doublemint twins.”

“Right,” Dean says. He tries not to be as embarrassed by that as he is. It was nine years ago, for crying out loud. He’s been to Hell since then. It’s _fine_.

(It’s not fine. Nobody should ever know the shame of their sibling walking in on a threeway. There’s a reason Dean blocked the memory.)

“I didn’t think you saw David,” he admits after a moment. Sam snorts.

“How could I have missed him?”

“There was a blanket.”

“There wasn’t anywhere near enough blanket for what you all were up to,” Sam laughs, and shudders. “God, it’s still so vivid.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Figured you didn’t want to talk about it,” Sam shrugs. “I mean… you were counting down to Hell back then. I wasn’t about to try to make you talk.”

“Yeah, makes sense.”

“So hey—I’ve always wondered,” Sam says before he can. “Is it immediately classed as an orgy if there’s more than three people involved? Or do you just call that a _ménage à quatre_? Where’s the cutoff?”

Dean’s eye twitches. Sam grins wider.

“Y’know, Dean, if you can’t talk about it, you probably shouldn’t be doing it.”


End file.
